


It Came Upon the Midnight Clear

by FallacyFallacy



Series: The Annual Christmas Carol Fic [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bittersweet, Castiel in the Bunker, Christmas, First Kiss, Human Castiel, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Season/Series 11, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 00:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallacyFallacy/pseuds/FallacyFallacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Dean,” he says, staring intently towards the overladen shelves, “we should get a Christmas tree.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Dean pauses for a long moment, assessing the situation. “Cas,” he says eventually, “it's October.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	It Came Upon the Midnight Clear

**Author's Note:**

> My first Supernatural fic, and the latest edition to my annual series of Christmas fic titled after a carol! It didn't completely turn out like I wanted it to, but in the end I'm still proud of it. Man, it feels good to be writing fic again!!
> 
> This fic is set in some kind of vague s11-ish time where Cas was cut off from heaven, but nobody brings up the Darkness for some reason. I dunno, just assume they fixed it or something.

**October**

They're at the mall that day because their shopping list (and man, Dean still isn't really used to having a shopping list that actually has proper shit like groceries dish-washing liquid and stuff rather than just, like, hot pockets and salt) had grown to the stage where a simple convenience store run wasn't gonna cut it and Cas insisted on coming along but Dean knew from very good experience that even if he's there to corral the dude into the direction they're meant to travelling in like a tired and cranky sheepdog he'll still take at least twice as long as necessary to take a look at everything. Dean doesn't understand but also kind of does: the guy might be tens of thousands of years old and he might've spent a good five years of it now on Earth, but not much of it had left him with the opportunity to hang around and meander through bookshops and department stores. Which kind of impedes the effectiveness of his coralling, though he'd never admit it. 

But the point is that they're nearing the end of the trip, laden with a bunch of bags and a couple of half-eaten pretzels covered in cheese and mustard they probably shouldn't have brought into the store but whatever, when Dean turns the corner and sets his sights on an entire aisle full of Christmas decorations.

He snorts, sighs, and turns to make the kind of predictable wry comment any ordinary person would make on coming across such a thing at this time of the year.

He realises his misjudgement in Castiel's sparkling eyes a split second before he speaks.

“Dean,” he says, staring intently towards the overladen shelves, “we should get a Christmas tree.”

Dean pauses for a long moment, assessing the situation. “Cas,” he says eventually, “it's October.”

Cas gives him a withering look Dean knows very well – the one that reminds Dean that he is, in fact, a ten plus thousand year old angel whose true form could crush Dean in a second, and not actually an idiot. “I am aware.”

Cas's gaze immediately returns to the aisle. He casts it over advent calendars; it lingers over wrapping paper and ribbons. His hands twitch, as though preparing to make some desperate grab for the brightly-coloured snowflake-covered gift boxes of chocolate to his left. 

A profound sense of unease, trained by years of situations in which life or death is decided by the ability to discern between the mundane and the supernatural-and-about-to-kill-you, settles deep within Dean's soul.

This is no ordinary faint general curiosity in strange human practices. No – Dean isn't sure why, isn't sure how, but it is now suddenly utterly clear to him: Cas is one of _those people._

Dean tries to buy himself time to think and to not panic. “Isn't it a little early?”

But because it's Cas, turns back to Dean apologetically as soon as he hears his hesitation. “We don't have to get it just yet.”

Dean frowns.

Dean doesn't like Christmas. When he was young, it was a reminder of everything he used to have but didn't anymore; for most of his life, it signified if nothing else a very tense evening of keeping Sammy safe from whatever the hell his dad was gonna pull in his drunken, more miserable than maudlin state. He supposes there's technically not any reason not to celebrate it now, but he sure as hell doesn't feel any craving to, and the over loaded, hideously exaggerated fake cheeriness of the holiday and the way it is overpoweringly forced on everyone who has the misfortune of being alive at that time of the year kicking and screaming doesn't exactly incline him towards the general festivities.

But. Well. It's _Cas._

Feeling the very special kind of put upon you only get when you put things upon _yourself_ , he claps a hand on Cas's shoulder. “Well, nah. But I guess we're gonna need some stuff to like, put on it or whatever, right?”

He was trying to avoid his eyes, but Cas locks on to him with practiced precision and his eyes gleam, mouth quirking. Dean's stomach gives a funny little quiver and maybe he smiles back and maybe they stand there for a few long moments and maybe Dean means to take his hands away swiftly but instead they kinda drift away doing this weird kind of lingering almost caressy thing and Cas smiles just a little bit wider but who cares.

The whole thing is just distracting enough that he almost doesn't mind that they then proceed to spend a whole extra hour wandering from shop to shop picking up almost every vaguely Christmas-themed looking fucking thing Cas sets his eyes on while Dean trails behind like a beleaguered spouse.

The bags fill and fill – crackers, sweaters, tablecloths, gift tags (there's only three fucking possibilities of combinations between them save Claire so Dean really doesn't know why but since he's apparently doing this out of the goodness of his heart he limits himself to only the occasional sarcastic/grumbling comment), candy canes, stockings, mini plastic trees. He buys gingerbread cookies and fruitcake and hot chocolate and mince pies and snow-themed Toblerones. Throughout it all, Dean grins and bears it, by his standards It's _Cas._

They're sitting on a bench by a fountain at the end of it and Dean is starting to wonder whether the worst is over and his initial foreboding was maybe slightly exaggerated when Cas – who for the last minutes or so has seemed as tired as Dean – suddenly perks up.

“Dean,” he says, brow furrowed. He pauses for a few moments. With dawning horror Dean suddenly realises that he's _listening_ to the tinny recording half-audibly playing all throughout the mall. “There is quite a lot of Christmas-themed music. I suppose a CD store would be the right place to purchase some?”

Dean is perfectly willing to humor Cas's sudden, strange obsession with Christmas, even knowing full well that the next few months may become almost unbearable, but he has his fucking limits.

“Nah, I don't think you can buy 'em,” he lies, and gets up. “C'mon, or Sam'll think we got cornered by a ghost or somethin'.”

*

Two days later, Dean knows in his heart of hearts that the doom he had foreseen was entirely accurate.

The bunker looks like some kind of Christmas bomb went off in the middle, showering everything with the most overwhelmingly clichéd and cheesy Christmas-themed objects possible. It looks as though some business-owner was so inordinately intent on making their store was welcoming and cheery to kids they instead accidentally ended up creating something so disturbingly unnatural. It looks like one of Santa's elves themselves coulda come down here themselves and whistled out nothing more than 'Whoa, maybe chill out there'

In some places, he actually went so far as to place _fake snow_ on the ground.

In the present, he's standing on a rickety, probably 50-plus-year-old ladder in the centre of the room hanging tinsel on a _ginormous_ half-decorated Christmas tree. This alone would have been concerning; the fat that Dean has never seen this tree before in his life even more so.

After all this time it finally occurs to Dean that, maybe, some people just have that kind of personality – the kind that, when it decides on a particular course of action, will rip through time and space to see it through even if it kills him. In an angel, it leads to Leviathans being swallowed and Heaven being locked and bolted and, maybe, throwing away one's entire life just because of a few doubts and one dude yelling at him lot. In humans, it leads to... well, this.

When he looks at it that way, he guesses he can't really be anything other than relieved.

(Which doesn't mean he's going to stop wincing every time he accidentally locks eyes with that fucking creepy-ass Santa right at the end of the hallway, though.)

“Need any help?” he calls, because he hates this overly sentimental cheesy shit, but he also would prefer if Cas didn't fall and break his neck now that he's all sort of humany and probably mortal.

Cas perks up immediately. “Yes,” he says firmly, with a pronounced frown. “This is very difficult to drape around the tree.”

“Uh, that's probably because most trees'd be, like, a third of the size of this one?”

“But we have a much bigger house than most people. If I used an ordinary sized tree, the ratios would be off and it would look strange.”

Dean gets distracted for a moment noticing something dumb: this the first time he can remember Cas calling the bunker home without thinking about it. “I guess so?”

Cas continues struggling to push the end of the tinsel past a branch he can't quite reach from the top of the ladder, and Dean sighs. 

“Look, you're gonna need to climb down and move it over. You're gonna fall off if you keep goin' that way.”

Cas looks irritated but obeys. Dean snorts – surely you'd think a ten thousand year old being would have a little more patience? But Cas doesn't complain, just pushes the ladder over once it's down and climbs up again.

Dean looks around at the table behind them; it's covered with many of the lines of tinsel they bought the other day, as well as several more he doesn't recognize. Scattered around are more ornaments than Dean feels he has ever seen in one place: boxes of baubles, chains of beads, little snowflakes and Santas and stars and – angels?

“Dean,” Cas calls down abruptly from the top of the ladder, “what are your family's Christmas traditions?”

Dean stares at the little angels, all robes and harps and halos. Is this like a joke to Cas?

“Get drunk,” he says eventually. “Watch some TV.”

“You-” Cas turns to him, eyes narrowed. “...apologies,” he says. “I believed the holiday would be of significance to you.”

“Why? You know I've never exactly been religious or anything.”

Cas shakes his head, carefully weaving the tinsel up and down over the branches in a wavy diagonal line upwards. “Holidays for humans typically have different associations. In America, Valentine's is associated with romance, and New Year's with friends and self improvement. But as far as I'm aware, Christmas is typically associated with family. Because of how important family is to you, I assumed the holiday would be significant to you. Sorry.”

“'T's fine,” he grunts. He watches Cas. “It's just... I dunno.” He puts his hands in his pockets, bemused. “None of this really means anything to me, you know?”

Cas looks at him. Even from this distance Dean can make out his eyes, familiar and intense. But after only a couple of moments he looks away, down at the line of purple tinsel in his hands.

“And you think this means something to me?” he asks.

He stares downwards, big hands cradling the lines of glittering unnaturally colored plastic. Above his furrowed brow is a thin red line – a minor scrape that hasn't quite healed yet. He looks so physical all of a sudden, so material, feet planted on the ladder, gravity pushing him down, chest shifting as he breathes in the air and the sappy scent of the pine tree that dwarfs him.

“Guess not,” Dean says quietly.

He helps him for two more hours after that. After that one strange moment, Cas immediately returnd to normal, grumbling about the tricky decorations and wondering aloud about further plans. Dean helps.

*

**November**

Eventually, it reaches a point where there's really nothing left to decorate anymore, no matter how huge the bunker is. (And given how quickly he set up such a ridiculous amount of such in the main rooms, Dean really isn't looking forward to forgetting about all of this and accidentally stumbling on some winter fuckin' fairyland when he's trying to find some lost artifact in an obscure room in April.) A couple of days from when Cas finally starts sticking around in the normal areas, when he shows up for their several times weekly Netflix binging, he tells Dean that he doesn't want to watch Black List anymore. When Dean manages to get over the shock, he's assaulted with an even more powerful missile: now, Cas only wants to watch Christmas movies.

And he doesn't even only want to watch the half-good ones, either. He knows most of them already from his pop culture dump, but not all, and whether because he's still working through his actual likes and dislikes and movie tastes or because he's a sentimental asshole who legitimately tears up at the most predictable storylines ever, he wants to watch every Christmas movie he can find, from The Muppet's Christmas Carol to shit like Christmas with the Kranks.

Literally the only reason he manages to get Dean to _just barely_ agree to put up with it all is that he swears that he'll let Dean keep his running snarky commentaries and won't expect him to actually like any of it (as long as he shuts up and limits himself to eye-rolling whenever the music goes all 80s Very Special Episode-y and everyone learns the True Meaning of Christmas, anyway).

So with far more dramatic sighing and eye-rolling and deliberately-shot dubious looks than would probably be expected from someone who had in actuality gone through shit a million times worse and lived to tell the tale (more than he expected Cas to bear with, if he's honest), they end up bunching up together on the couch shoving in handfuls of popcorn and chips to Cas's terrifyingly long Netflix queue.

It's... not so bad. They watch a lot of shit, but Cas can be surprisingly funny when he wants to be, and it all kind of reminds him of when he was twelve and he and Sam had nothing better to do than watch whatever awful crap happened to be playing on the one TV channel that actually worked in that dingy, moth-ridden hotel room they'd been stuck in for a week already. Some of them aren't even all that different from his favourite soap operas, though he doesn't appreciate it at all when Cas finally notices and points that out.

It's still so weird, to the point of feeling surreal, that Cas is right here, right now, on his couch beside him, like they have every evening that week, doing nothing more than letting his face light up when some kid on a screen finally sees his puppy come home for Christmas. It's all dumb, but compared to the rest of Dean's life so far, dumb is a goddamn _blessing._

One day, Dean comes in to the room to find the screen on It's a Wonderful Life. He shoots a glance at Cas; from the way he doesn't look back, he guesses he knows what it's about.

He wants to ask Cas if he's sure, but he doesn't know how. So he sits back as though everything is normal and grabs the bowl of popcorn.

It's even worse than Dean remembered: sure, the angels are a thing, but he forgot that the whole damn movie is about this poor guy working himself half to death with nothing to show for it but a hell of a lot of suffering. He keeps checking on Cas, wondering if he's picked up on the parallel, but he doesn't seem to react at all.

Finally, they get to the part of the movie that actually features Christmas. And then, inexplicably, Cas snorts.

“What?”

Cas is smiling weirdly, all lopsided and slightly gummy, and when he sees Dean he immediately tries to shift his expression into a more typical one.

“I just remembered something,” he says faintly.

Dean has a sip of beer. “What?”

His mouth twitches again. He's staring into space, like he's watching his own memories playing in front of him instead of the film.

“It's very strange to think back on the existence I led before I first encountered you.”

Well that was a fucking unexpected subject change. “Huh,” he says. “How?”

“I felt emotions – sometimes very strongly – but I was not aware and didn't understand what they were. So, when I did so I assumed that that was an objective reaction to the inherent nature of the thing.” When he sees Dean staring, he explains. “I often felt intrigued or enthralled by the beauty of Earth and its inhabitants, but I didn't see that as a reflection on me, but rather the intrinsic response to beholding God's creation, which was naturally pure and perfect.”

“Uh, guess that didn't really hold out.”

“I still remember the first time I encountered snow in a human vessel.” His eyes twinkle. “From the outside, snow looks very beautiful. As an angel, I observed every individual unique shape, the way the light refracted and shone within the patterns of ice. I assumed that it was an inherently wonderful thing. Until I found myself standing outside in a snowfall for the first time.”

Dean snorts and Cas nods.

“I was very shocked and disheartened to learn that snow, in fact, was cold and wet and uncomfortable. Of course, I immediately used my grace to protect my clothing and regulate my internal body temperature-”

“Show-off.”

“...and I had encountered less than ideal earthly conditions before then, of course, but this in particular felt like some kind of terrible disappointment. Even a betrayal, if I'd thought to use such words then.”

Cas's hand is resting on the couch beside him, gently against Dean's thigh. Dean's beer is done but he hasn't put it down yet because he isn't quite sure what to do after that.

“...at the time, it was a very negative experience. It's strange that now, I find the memory funny.”

Dean shrugs. “That's how it goes. You go through bad shit, and then in the end you look back and laugh at it, 'cause nothing really bad happened because of it, so it wasn't really that bad after all.”

Cas is staring at him. Dean puts down his glass. But before he can act Cas is shifting, turning on his side. After a moment, his head is resting in Dean's lap, watching in silence as George talks excitedly to his brother.

 _Okay,_ he thinks.

After the movie is over he asks Cas what he thinks, hand just lightly resting on his hair. Cas thinks for several long moments and Dean wonders whether he's going to get another strange angel story. Instead, he lets out a huff and says that the concept of angels not gaining wings until they do a good deed is absurd, because how was Clarence supposed to have traveled down to Earth from Heaven, or indeed anywhere, without wings?

So it goes.

*

They're coming home from a case and Dean is so angry.

He slams the door behind him and stomps down the stairs, feeling too indignantly petty to care how childish he's being. There's a slice to the side of his head that is burning just enough to distract him, which means it's probably the kind of thing an ordinary person would immediately rush to the hospital with. When he reaches the base, he immediately heads off to his room.

Sam sighs. “Dean,” he says, sounding as tired as he looks, “you need to get that stitched.”

Dean grunts. “I can do it myself.”

“You can't even see it.”

“I'll do it,” Cas says.

Sam glances at him and then Dean, but then shrugs. “Well, night then.”

Dean rolls his eyes as Sam leaves. “Y'know _mirrors_ are a thing, right?”

“You're tired. You'll be able to go to bed quicker this way.”

Sometimes he doesn't know where the fuck Cas gets off with this shit. 

“Fine,” he mutters.

Silently, they head to the bathroom they've come to view as the patch-up bathroom, if only because Dean has had enough experience for a lifetime trying to clean himself in tiny motel bathrooms that would've been worryingly grubby even if he and Sam hadn't been bleeding all over them only hours earlier.

He sits down on the toilet and Cas gets out the medical kit, gently but quickly checking the gash line. He's close, but Dean is tired and his head fucking hurts. It's not romantic.

“Sorry,” Cas says.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, sharply.

Cas slowly begins the stitching. His movements are so precise, as though he still has that superhuman muscle control and visual calculation he once had.

“I forgot,” he says.

“Forgot what? That you're mortal now?”

“Yes.”

Dean stares at the blank tile in front of him. The scary thing is, it's actually plausible.

“I don't like seeing you hurt,” Cas continues.

“Well, neither do I – y'ever think of that?”

Cas goes quiet.

Eventually, he finishes. He moves away perfunctorily, snapping up the kit and giving Dean space to stand up. It still hurts, but now that he knows it's not gonna kill him or stain everything he feels a lot better.

Cas is avoiding his eyes. As they walk out of the bathroom and back down the hall side by side, it's probably the only reason he notices it.

He stops, staring up. Dean stops too, and looks, then looks back down at Cas.

“Really?” he asks. “Really, Cas?”

Cas speaks softly. “It is an integral component in Christmas decorating.”

His eyes are intense again. Dean's throat is thick; he swallows it back down.

“We don't actually need to do it.”

Cas lowers his head. “Of course not.”

Dean wants to swear. He wonders wildly for a second whether there's any meaning in the mistletoe being here specifically, whether Cas counted on them coming down here together at some point, but that's not really the point. Cas is close again, but it's different now; warm.

If he was going to get it over and done with he'd have sighed and pressed their lips together already. For some reason he's still standing here, skin prickling, adrenaline surging up again pointlessly.

Cas looks up again, slowly. His brow is wrinkled just a little in the middle, lips glistening as though he licked them a moment ago.

He still, after all this time, looks stupidly, distractingly, terribly hot.

He leans forward. Cas closes his eyes. 

_Shit,_ Dean thinks, and then nothing else.

As soon as they touch, Cas surges forward, one hand tightly on his shoulder, another curled around his cheek, thumb above his ear. He kisses slowly, a little too strongly, almost pushing Dean back with the force. The adrenaline rears and fires, and Dean feels tense all over as though he's holding himself in place; when Cas breathes in, Dean adjusts forwards, to the side, down.

He kisses steadily back, trying to show Cas the way, but Cas only clutches more strongly, breath heavy. Dean tangles his hands in Cas's sweater holding him unnecessarily in place. On his temple, Cas' thumb is tracing a circle over and over again.

All of a sudden Cas pulls back with a pop, almost panting. Dean feels dazed ten times over. Cas is wide eyed.

“Okay?” Dean asks.

Cas nods. “Just, uh.” Cas swallows. “Too, uh. Much.”

Dean nods, and then leans in for some reason. Cas jumps, like he isn't sure whether to lean in or back, so Dean adjusts his trajectory awkwardly, pressing a kiss just above his eyebrow.

Cas is staring at him. Then his eyes go to the stitching and he suddenly drops away, takes two steps back.

“You should go and rest.”

Dean can't stop feeling the circle on his temple, fiery hot like a burn. What the fuck.

“Yeah. You too.”

They go back to their separate rooms and sleep.

*

**December**

Eventually, Cas finally exhausts his list of movies (which may, Dean considers, actually have counted every Christmas movie ever made, geographic origin ignored; more than once he caught Cas on his own watching something in Italian or Japanese or whatever else). At this point, Dean doesn't even question it when he moves on and he stumbles upon him one Saturday morning stirring something rapidly in a bowl while a triple layer cake bakes on in the oven.

Dean kind of likes cooking. When he was growing up it most mostly limited to finding extremely creative ways to mix up ramen noodles and cereal, but considering that Sam's cooking ability is limited to boiling pasta and adding sauce (and Dean still doesn't intend to ever let him forget about the time he accidentally set the pasta on fire) and Cas was for the most part over the last two years either not present or not interested in eating, cooking duties mostly passed to Dean. (Besides, this way he doesn't have to eat any of Sam's salad alfalfa crap; for all that Sam complains about how unhealthy his food is, Dean is convinced he's grateful that he _doesn't have any choice_ but to eat Dean's burgers now and then.)

But for all that, Dean's food tastes are specific and restricted. Hamburgers, hot dogs, pizza, nachos – all that stuff they couldn't help but gain a taste for over the years, and honestly, compared to the kind of hot dogs they've had in the past, Dean's might as well be goddamn Ambrosia. Beyond that, there's fried chicken, maybe a roast once in a while, and the carnivore's favourite, steak.

What Dean does not have any experience of, bar the occasional pie, is baking.

Which of course is exactly what Cas has suddenly gained an extreme interest in.

Cas glares. “It isn't thickening.”

Dean stifles a growl. “Look, it takes time, all right?” But in reality, he's gritting his teeth as he stares down at the recipe Cas had opened up on Sam's laptop by them on the counter. Is it supposed to take this long? This recipe is fucking terrible.

Mostly he's just hoping it doesn't turn out like the custard. It took an entire day, and literally dozens of eggs, for Cas to admit defeat back then.

Dean wipes sweat from his brow. “It is way too hot in here for winter.”

“I'd rather it be hot than cold,” Cas mumbles, glaring down at the saucepan. The effect is somewhat diminished by the giant gaudy red sweater he's wearing (he'd bought about eight of them early on; Dean had complained that nobody would ever need that many terrible Christmas sweaters, but that was before he'd realised that Cas didn't intend to wear anything else for a good two month period), but Dean fully shares his enmity so it really doesn't matter.

Suddenly, Cas jumps; he looks down at the sauce with wide eyes, lips quirking. “It's thickening,” he says. “Fast.”

Dean coughs, thinks several things, and then somehow his brain and mouth stumble simultaneously. “Good,” he says eventually.

Was that a twitch in Cas's eyebrow? “What now?”

“Er, right.” Dean turns back to the recipe. “Er, take it off the heat. Then we gotta add the cream, then stir. Then we put in the salt,” he adds firmly, because honestly, the salted part is the only reason he's coming along so willingly with Cas's whole plan today – no way he's ever gonna pass up some salted caramel.

“Right.” Cas follows his instructions, moving the saucepan, and then carefully holds up the tub of cream.

As soon as he pours, a very loud fizzing erupts; seeing the result, Dean lunges instantly towards Cas, trying to grab the saucepan away. As the toffee hardens and crystallises where the cream touches, the still-liquid parts slosh over, over onto a startled Cas's wrist.

He screeches and Dean drops the wooden spoon he'd just grabbed. Cas backs away, hand tentatively to his wrist, hissing.

“Shit, shit.” Dean grabs his arm and pulls him to the sink, then thrusts it underneath and turns on the water.

His heart is pounding faster than it has in most cases he's been on in the last year. Over in the background, the toffee hisses, probably a solid mass by now.

“What was that?” Cas asks, sounding almost furious.

Dean sighs. “Seems like we were supposed to stir it _while_ we added the cream, not after.”

Cas glares. “Then the recipe should have specified that.”

“Yeah.”

Cas's wrist is so bony. His skin there is bright red and inflamed; Dean avoids the whole area, cradling the back of Cas's hand instead.

The timer pings again – they really need to get that pudding out soon. It's so hot, he can feel sweat drip down his back; pushed up against his side, still breathing heavily, Cas licks his lips.

For a moment he feels Cas's eyes on him, but then he looks away.

It's been two weeks since he and Cas kissed. 

He kinda thought it might actually change things. But the issue wasn't that he didn't know how Cas felt or vice versa – it's been a long time since he first started to drag himself with great hesitance towards that conclusion. All this time he had kind of pedestalised the idea of it, maybe – that if they kissed, then that would make everything different, and they would have to start treating each other differently, and that Thing that has been thrumming between them for as long as he can remember would finally become solid.

The problem is, Dean still has _no fucking clue_ what to do.

At all.

If Cas knew what he wanted, it'd be fine – he could do whatever and Dean would go with it and, honestly, that's pretty much how most of Dean's relationships have gone anyway, so at least it'd be familiar. They'd be something.

But the problem is, as long as Dean doesn't know, Cas doesn't either. He's changed and grown so much over the years since he first stepped down onto Earth, so much so that Dean forgets sometimes that, all those years ago, Dean was really his first example of an actual human social relationship. And because of that, even now, when he's confused he tends to instinctively turn to Dean first, to follow whatever kind of lead he sets. But then, maybe Dean forgets about that because it's probably the single worst and most awkward way it could've gone down for Cas; Dean doesn't even trust _himself_ to make good decisions 99% of the time, so any time he catches Cas modeling him in even a minor way is too excruciating to dwell on.

So here they are, acting exactly like they always do. They work cases when they have them, and hang out and binge TV shows together when they don't. Dean makes dinner and breakfast and they all eat and Sam compliments Cas's baking no matter how bad it is. They go on drives and say barely anything and that used to be totally fine but right now, maddeningly, it's awkward, because Dean constantly feels like he's supposed to be saying or doing something but this is _Cas_ and for so many dozens of reasons the normal way of doing things really doesn't seem like it's supposed to apply.

Dean lets go of Cas's wrist reluctantly and watches Cas's nose scrunch frustratedly. It almost makes him sigh aloud, for God's sake, the pang of fondness that runs through him at the sight. Somehow, that feeling has only grown stronger and stronger over time.

Cas captures his eye and Dean is too startled to look away immediately. He's suddenly thrown back into two weeks ago, back when they had a spring of berries to tell them what to do even if they were clueless.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he swiftly maneuvers his hand to Cas's cheek and turns his face towards him. In a heartbeat he's pressed his lips to Cas's in a short, warm kiss.

“'t's just a burn. It'll smart, and might leave a mark, but it'll be fine,” he murmurs against Cas's cheek, trying to ignore the terrified part of himself telling him to run somewhere, anywhere.

Cas nods. His cheeks are so dark; Dean likes the way his eyes look like this, half-lidded.

Suddenly there comes a snort from the door. 

Dean leaps away like he's been electrocuted, flailing his limbs wildly.

“Wh-what?!” he barks, trying to sound intimidating from where he's jumped two paces away from Cas.

Sam, of course, only looks even more amused. He returns the gun to his belt and explains. “I heard a scream from down here and thought maybe there was a monster or something. I, uh, don't think I wanna know what it was about, anymore.”

Dean stares uncomprehendingly. He's not looking at Cas, but from what he can see, he looks rather stiff.

“No,” Cas says next, “I, um, accidentally burned my wrist cooking the salted caramel sauce.”

He holds his arm up as proof but Sam turns to the stove. “Oh. Is that it, there?”

“Shit!” Dean swears, again, and pulls the saucepan towards him – naturally, the toffee has coalesced into one single impressive, very dark caramel ball.

“Hey, is the pudding ready yet?”

_“Shit.”_

(They add the salt to it anyway. It's not exactly a sauce anymore, but as the three of them soon find out, salted toffee is just as freaking good.)

*

Like a good middle class Christian housewife, Dean prepares the Christmas Eve dinner ahead of time.

With just the three of them, there's only so much they can do, but considering it'll mark the end of the Christmas season, he feels the need to put on at least one final thing for Cas. So they've got the ham naturally, and then some potatoes and even vegetables, not to mention the dessert Cas put together: a very haphazard, icing-splattered gingerbread house, which Dean is just kind of hoping they can eat before it caves in and makes Cas sad.

On the day proper he's relaxing in the main room for once, ham safely baking in the oven and much of the food already prepared, looking up at the Christmas tree with some odd combination of relief and temporally present nostalgia, when Sam comes in.

“I haven't seen your boyfriend all day.”

Dean grunts and sips his beer. “He's not my boyfriend.”

Sam raises a very skeptical eyebrow. “In what sense, exactly?”

Dean pauses. Many different possible responses fill his mind – ones he would have given ten years ago, or five, or even three months ago. They needle at him, but don't break the skin. So he gives up.

“Because we're not fucking fourteen years old,” he grumbles and takes another swig.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Anyway, he's been out all day.”

Dean shrugs. “Probably out there soaking up the last of the Christmas spirit.”

Sam looks unsatisfied, but shrugs. He turns to the tree as well, doubtful eyebrow raising as usual at the sheer festive overload. “Not gonna lie, I'm gonna be kinda pleased when this is all done with.”

“Eh,” Dean says, feeling strangely defensive.

“I still don't get it. I mean, I can't imagine the angels had any real thoughts on Christmas. I can't remember him ever getting annoyed about profanity or taking the Lord's name in vain, I can't imagine he'd be peeved about the commercialisation or anything. And it's such an, I don't know, localised thing? It's celebrated so differently everywhere in the world, at different times in history.”

“You've thought about this.”

Sam glares a little. “Well, duh. It's weird. And it's been pretty tiring just watching it all.”

“If that's what he wants to do, let him be.”

Sam sighs. “'course you'd take his side. I'm gonna be outnumbered on everything from this point, aren't I?”

“You say that as though I wasn't already exercising my right as your brother to contradict everything you ever say.”

“Yeah, but at least I sometimes had Cas backing me up.” He pauses. “Actually, no, I'm not sure I ever did.”

Something about this conversation is making him feel weird. “Cas likes you.”

Sam steps towards him and drops a hand on his shoulder. “ _Exactly._ But yeah, I'm happy for you, man.”

With that, he walks off, leaving Dean alone again to gaze up at the tree.

He really doesn't think much of Sam's warning, but as the hours drag on he becomes increasingly on nerve. It's not exactly weird for Cas to leave for long periods of time without notice – old habits die hard, and Dean suspects that at times Cas still has trouble dealing with an existence where mere days have greater than negligible timeframe significance – but Cas knows that Dean is making dinner tonight.

No, Dean thinks with an aggrieved sigh, it actually is possible that Cas got caught up in something and lost track of the time. Ignoring his own irritation, he sends out a quick text.

The answer comes after a strangely long pause, and contains only a single word message ('Sorry'), and then the name of a church Dean has never heard of.

Brow furrowing not with confusion, Dean looks it up and sets off.

When he arrives, the sky is in the hazy purple shade that signals that night is mere minutes away, in which stars aren't quite yet visible next to the setting sun and city lights. Dean spares just a moment to glance upwards at it before he makes makes his way towards the church.

It doesn't look like anything special – no big statues of angels or stained glass ceiling, just a typical 70s style community hall in the middle of a busy suburb with only a single wooden cross to declare its current purpose. He can hear the faint strains of a choir through the open door; Dean purses his lips.

Inside sits a large hall haphazardly filled with lines of wooden chairs seating a motley collection of people, ranging from stern-looking parents seated beside bored children to grim-faced elderly people. It takes several moments to place Cas; in his wrinkled trench coat he looks like some sad alcoholic whose family left him just in time for Christmas, and thus not really out of place.

When he pushes his way through the rows and into the chair between Cas and some teary-eyed middle aged woman, Cas only glances in his direction after a few moments, and immediately turns his gaze back to the choir.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, “you don't need to torture yourself.”

The woman beside Dean glares at him but Cas doesn't react.

The choir of children, prim and clean and slightly disorganised, finishes whatever song they were singing until now (something about Hosana? Dean doesn't fucking know) and starts up on something else.

 _It came upon the midnight clear_  
_That glorious song of old_  
_From angels bending near the earth,_  
_To touch their harps of gold_

Dean's chest stings suddenly, a flash of pain, and he glares at Cas again.

“Cas,” he says, insistently.

 _“Peace on the earth, good will to men,_  
_From heaven's all-gracious King.”_  
_The world in solemn stillness lay,_  
_To hear the angels sing._

Dean grabs Cas's arm. It dangles without resistance, and without hesitation, Dean drags Cas up and pushes through the aisles out of the church.

Out in the almost dark evening, Cas's eyes are hard; when Dean steps closer, he can see a tear on his cheek.

“Shit, man.” Dean struggles for words. “There's – you can't do this shit. There's reasons I don't go back to Lawrence, y'know?”

“I know,” Cas says.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. Cas is still staring into space, lost.

Eventually, he huffs out a breath. “Sorry,” he says. “I'm ruining your dinner.”

“'T's fine. Was made for you, anyway.”

Finally Cas looks at him, expression suddenly so much more empathetic. “I've bothered you so much over the last few months, even though this holiday probably only brings you bad memories.”

“Wasn't a bother.”

Cas looks skeptical. Dean sighs.

“I mean – yeah, sure, okay, a lot of it was kinda weird or annoying or whatever, and it sure as hell wasn't how I would've spent the season, but... we're, uh, we're family, Cas. Annoyin' each other is what we're for. Especially when it's, uh, important.”

Cas stares at him for a few moments, then looks out over the parking lot, the people walking by, bundled in cloaks and breathing out in visible puffs. They can still faintly hear the organ music through the open door, hopeful and faint.

“Everyone seemed so... happy.”

His voice takes on a tone Dean isn't sure he's ever heard before.

“I thought... this is how humans celebrate Christmas. But it doesn't mean anything to me, yet. I thought, if I tried everything, maybe some of it would work. Something.” He snorts, smiling wryly. “But that probably doesn't make any sense.”

“Nah,” Dean says. “Nah. I get it.”

Cas looks tired, and sad. Dean doesn't feel too differently.

“Hey, c'mon. Let's go for a walk.”

He starts off, and after a moment Cas follows.

“What? Why? What about dinner?”

Dean shrugs. “I'll message Sam to take it out of the oven. We can just have it tomorrow.”

Cas looks confused, but Dean just shoves his hands in his pockets. As always, he follows.

They walk down the street, only vaguely aware of even which direction they're heading in. It hasn't snowed yet, hasn't even properly frosted, but the streets share the unmistakeable appearance of winter, dark and dusty beneath the glow of the brightly lit shop windows.

After only a minute Dean finds himself rubbing his arms; he'd left the bunker expecting to merely find Cas and retrieve him, so he hadn't bothered to bring a coat. Once Cas notices, he stops to take his trenchcoat from his back.

“Here,” he says.

Dean snorts. “Such a gentleman. Hope you know I'm not gonna be _that_ easy.”

Cas raises a doubtful eyebrow, holding out the coat again. Dean rolls his eyes and takes it. He takes a moment to shift, letting it fall over his shoulders properly, while Cas watches.

“Cool,” he says, and they continue.

They walk. They walk past houses, some covered in fairy lights and surrounded by dancing snowmen and dashing reindeer, some as bare as they'd be at any ordinary time of the year They pass shops, many bearing cheerful signs declaring their closure for the holidays. There aren't many people around – cars travelling late to Christmas dinners, a couple of unfortunate people dragging around bags of very late bought Christmas presents, even a set of carollers (Dean gives them a wide berth). Eventually they both feel the lack of dinner catching up with them and stop at a dingy looking side stall for some souvlaki. It's surprisingly good, but as he bites into the meat and bread he notices Cas plastering his hands to the plastic paper wrapping, pressing each inch of the skin of his fingers and palm to the warmth. He watches those hands carefully as he eats, as they fumble with the wrap in this uncomfortable position.

When they're done and Cas has finished licking sour cream from his fingers, Dean holds out his hand.

When Cas raises his eyebrows, Dean shrugs in conspicuous nonchalance.

“Your hands are cold, right?”

Cas's smile is more than worth it.

They walk stiffly, close together, to preserve warmth, and maybe to camouflage their entwined hands. Dean feels a little naked. But hey, gettin' naked is the whole point, isn't it?

They walk and walk until night has long since come and the moon is high and the streets are almost empty and the air is becoming chillingly cold. Then they find a park bench they can sit on while Cas fumbles with his phone trying to figure out how they're supposed to fuckin get back home because maybe Dean didn't plan his 'wander the streets at random' plan entirely through.

A thought occurs to him, and since he's on a roll (and Cas has revealed enough of himself today) he voices it.

“We must've had Christmas traditions, one time.”

Cas looks up from where he's squinting down at google maps. Dean barrels on before he can remember why he doesn't normally do this.

“I mean, back when I was really little. I remember – remembering, if that makes sense. Even when I was a teenager and all. But it kept gettin' fainter and fainter, and now it's long since gone.” He shrugs. “I mean, I wasn't even 4 yet. No-one my age is gonna remember something from that long ago.”

Cas nods. “Naturally.”

“It was nice. The last few months.” A pause. “Some of it.”

“Some of it,” Cas agrees.

“The sauce. Or toffee ball, whatever. Some of the movies. Some other stuff”

“We'll do those things again.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and to his surprise as much as anyone's he actually sounds enthusiastic.

He rolls with it, flashing Cas a confident grin, and Cas grins back.

After a moment of fluttered hesitation, Cas leans forward, curling a hand around the side of Dean's cheek, and presses a kiss to his lips.

It's not much of a _kiss_ , only the most standard of touches, but somehow it excites Dean's pulse even more so than their mistletoe kiss. Again, Cas's thumb rubs circles on Dean's temple. He still doesn't know why he notices it, but doing so kind of makes him happy.

“Home?” Cas murmurs, and Dean nods.

“Home.”

*

He wakes up bathed in warmth, in soft blankets and with flushed cheeks. He's drowsy and well rested, a state that feels like an incredible luxury even after all this time. He rolls over and hears a murmur.

After a few dazed moments he remembers how Cas followed him to his room that night, both of them tired and quiet, and how he had let Cas change and crawl into his bed without verbally questioning it. He'd like to say it felt normal but it didn't – even now, he's still not sure whether just lying in bed together without so much as cuddling was even what Cas wanted. But he went along with it because he was worried Cas still felt lonely and because weirdness aside it really didn't seem like such a bad idea, and now that it's morning he's relieved he did.

Cas's eyes scrunch up, lips pursing as Cas always does when he's tired and grouchy early in the day.

“Morning,” Dean says.

Cas cracks an eye open, and then takes a deep breath in.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, more animated than Dean has ever heard him before 10am.

Dean snorts. Cas's hair looks like the kind of nest that could only be made by a particularly crappy bird, and he's almost snuggling against his pillow in a way Dean never thought he'd see a grown man do, let alone feel happy to see.

“You're such a dork,” he huffs.

Cas chuckles, deep and throaty. “Yes, I'm wishing you Merry Christmas on Christmas day and I'm the weird one.”

“C'mere,” Dean says, and kisses him.

And okay, so what if the two of them are the kind of people who've fucked up almost every major decision they've ever made? So what if Dean's typical problem solving solution to problems involves either pelting himself head-long in as ill-thought-out a suicide attack as he can manage or ignoring the whole issue until it solves itself, and Cas's typical solution doesn't even bother with the second option. So what if Dean has _no_ goddamn idea how to be an actual boyfriend (and, seriously, can't they come up with a better word than that?) and Cas is approaching humanity the way most people would approach a burning house containing all their belongings.

He's glad. When he looks back on the past, he's glad. When he thinks about the future, he's glad. When he lies back and kisses Cas and loses himself in the present, he's glad.

He kisses Cas on Christmas morning and he has no earthly idea how he's here or what he's going to do next, and he enjoys it.


End file.
